Distance Between Me and What I See
by volitaire
Summary: AU. MR slash. Takes place in the 1950's. Mark's a Beatnik. Roger volunteers to fight in the Korean War. Collaboration with rexmanningdays. A tribute to Bohemia.
1. Flee the Angry Strangers

_**Author's Note**:_ This story is being written in collaboration with **rexmanningdays**. We thought it would be fun to write a Mark and Roger story in the 1950's- when Bohemia is first forming in New York City. We made Mark a Beatnik, like Allen Ginsberg before him, and Roger, rather than a rockstar, is a traditional jazz musician playing clubs and poetry slams. Not only that, he is also running off to voluntarily fight in the Korean War- which has commenced a few months prior. Mark cannot find reasoning for Roger's sudden bout of patriotism, and is absolutely devastated. Yes, this IS slash...the boys are in love. But homsexuality is not something most people are aware of (or accepting of) in this era, and they must keep their love under wraps- kind like, 'Rebel Without a Cause'. Our story begins a few days after Roger breaks the news to Mark, when Mark is home from college for Christmas vacation. Being a beatnik, Mark is anti-war and wants nothing to do with any of Roger's choices. The cafe' Roger refers to in this chapter is the Gaslight Cafe', a frequent Greenwich haunt of Neal Cassady and Ginsberg in their prime. This is our tribute to the fifties, and the boys. Hope you enjoy!

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_Chapter One: Mark's POV. December 19th, 1950_

It must be 20 below outside. The hyacinths I put in the windowsill are starting to precipitate and little flimsy bridges of ice are forming between the bulbs and the vase. There's a nasty draft seeping in through the windowpane, and when I move the curtains I notice that the sill is damp and beginning to collect mold. The back of the curtain is getting a little green and flaky, and the lace along the bottom is full of little frozen moldy green curls. I wrinkle my nose and stuff the dishtowel in the soggy crack and leave it there.

Suddenly Roger's awake. Somewhere in the back of the apartment there's a muted 'thump', the boards between the bedroom and the hallway creak, and then the bathroom door slams shut.

It's about time he's up. But now I have to hurry with supper.

I'm making salmon patties. I'm not even sure if Roger likes fish, but it's too late now, even if he doesn't. He only had a few tablespoons of olive oil in his cabinet, and now it's already in the bowl. If he wanted something else he could go buy it. He needs to quit being so picky, especially since I volunteered to do this for him.

I roll up my sleeves, and my bare arms immediately protest, goose bumps creeping up to my elbows. I watch as every hair stands briefly, before adjusting to the temperature and calming down. Roger doesn't have a can opener (which isn't a surprise), so I have no choice but to stab at the 14 oz. can of salmon with a kitchen knife, giving it several puncture wounds and leaking brine all over the countertop. I toss the spouting can in the bowl and let it leak, fumble for the dishtowel, and realize it's plugging the draft. The brine, and the little bits of pinkish salmon drift over the marble counter and drip onto the floor, seeping into the floorboards and out of sight.

The toilet flushes.

I set the mixing bowl over the leakage and pry open the side of the can, squeezing the piles of fish out a fairly large slit in the tin. Then I begin kneading the salmon into good-sized patties and toss them into the pan.

Behind me a lighter clicks and the stink of a cigarette mixes with the smell of frying fish.

From the doorway, "What is that?"

"Fish."

"Oh."

"You sleep well?"

"No."

"Are you hungry?"

"Not for fish."

If only I would've followed my hunch. He really insists on being negative. I decide against turning around.

I grab the vase of hyacinths by the neck and gently holding the stems, dump the glacial water down the drain. A little brown spider no bigger than my pinky nail scuttles out of the roots and up a leaf. What was he doing on the roots? They were submerged, poor thing. I take the recipe card and scoop the little thing into it, bending it to form a C shape, and holding him in. He runs frantically, instinctually in a chaotic circle over the words, stopping to collect himself on 'three tablespoons'. Then he splays his legs and allows me to carry him to the balcony.

"What are you doing?"

"I found a spider."

Tired footsteps follow me to the door, and the recipe is snatched from my careful grip. Two seconds later it's back in my hands, badly crumpled, with a tiny brown smudge over the measurement.

Very calmly, and with a hint of annoyance I ask, "Why did you do that?"

He sighs. "What were you gonna do with it?"

"Let it outside!"

"In the snow?"

I don't say anything.

"To let it freeze to death? At least I killed it when it wasn't suffering."

I slowly face him.

"Either way we both would've killed it."

He glares at me smugly and settles into the only chair at the table, resting his chin on his fist.

"Hey Mark- what's that on your shirt? It looks like you've got a chip on your shoulder."

I swallow. It doesn't make a sound, but my Adam's Apple slides and Roger watches it. He chuckles quietly. Evilly.

I restrain myself from lashing out at him, coolly turning back to face the windows and staring at the pile of snow balancing on the tree branch outside. Very smoothly, but still with a hint of agitation I utter, "Supper won't be ready for another fifteen minutes."

He shrugs, still staring at me, searching my face. "That's all right. Do you need any help preparing?"

"No, I don't."

He blows a stint of smoke out of his nose and waits for it to disappear before speaking again.

"Do you want company?"

I whirl around, almost too fast. I didn't want him to see me this angry, but I can't hold it in anymore. I'll just let him do what he pleases with my vulnerability. There are some things that I need to say.

"What do you think? Really Roger. Think. Just _think_. Do I want company? _Your_ company? _Now_?"

"Can I talk to you over dinner then?" He smirks. Damn him. _Damnit_!

I shake my head and sift the fish around in the pan. The oil sizzles and pops and I have to speak over the noise. The smell wafts out in a white steamy cloud and blows over to Roger in the draft from the window. He pulls back, squinting in disgust, turning a little green in the face. Suddenly I'm glad I made fish.

"You only have one chair Roger. And unless you'd like your houseguest to dine on the floor, then I suggest you just eat alone tonight. Think things over yourself."

He pouts, still smirking. "I eat dinner alone every night. I'll only get to see you for three more weeks. I want to talk to you."

I remove my glasses and hold them at my side. I tend to do this when I'm on edge. I face Roger but I don't see him. "Why?"

"Well. There's nothing more to explain, but you can't hold a grudge forever Mark," He laughs it off. Like I'm a child at fault.

Why must he be so conceited?

"…There's nothing you can do anymore. I made up my mind. For myself! For once. You're just mad- ha- maybe you're _jealous_ because I made a decision without your influence."

"Roger!" I slam the pan onto the burners, making the flames jump. Roger cringes at the little flare of fire. "But you didn't even tell me! You waited till _now_ to _tell_ me! Three weeks Roger, and now you break the news."

My eyebrows form a 'V' and my retinas start to burn. I try to keep a steady voice. I want to sound as smooth as Roger looks. I want to be as calm as he is. As he's _always_ been. How does he do it? How can he keep so cool? To be so damn stoic, all the time? I want that kind of impudence. I want that kind of _control_. I want that kind of _bravery_. Something clicks.

"Do you think you're being _brave_?"

"What?"

"Because you're _not_." I punch on the little radio I bought him last Christmas.

The timing of the broadcast couldn't be more perfect. Benny Goodman's brassy voice crackles into the kitchen over the sputter of dinner cooking away:

"…_a command post above the Naktong River last week. The woman warned the 1st Calvary on the Sousa March to '…go back home to your corner drugstores. Already there are 6,000 U.S. dead_."

I literally punch the off button. He looks from me to the radio and raises his eyebrows. There's a vacant stare, his pupils quiver in anticipation of my breakdown. I nearly squeeze my glasses to pieces in my sweating palm. I toss them on the counter and push on my eyelids. Roger sits back.

"_Six_ _thousand_ Roger!" Here's the breakdown, impulsive yet envisioned. Is it just me or is he reveling in it over there? I want to shut my mouth. I want to knock myself cold. I want _him_ to knock me cold- anything but calmly stare at me as I lose it.

"That's not _bravery_! That's not…" There's nothing else to say. "That's _stupidity_! You're… You're just- damn stupid."

I find myself sitting on the floor with my back to the cabinet door. The little wooden knob presses into the nape of my neck and I push back at it, just as hard. If I can't fight Roger I'll fight the door handle…

Rolling his eyes to the ceiling, he pushes the chair out from under him in one swift motion. The corner of his mouth twitches, first up, then down, then remains soullessly cold and straight. He pushes his hair back through his fingers, rotating his shoulder blades in a little ellipse. Then he's back in the doorway, still as stone, smoking, just like he came in.

"You can't _go_!" I'm wailing. Like a baby, I'm calling from the floor like I'm helpless and powerless, which, in every way, I _am_.

"Three weeks Mark. Twenty-one days, as of yesterday. I'm counting. You should be too. You're wasting a good fifteen minutes sitting down there." He sneers and jerks his chin at the stove. "You're also wasting the fish. I really hate fish."

Defeated, I pull myself out of the brine puddle on the floor and turn off the burner, replacing my glasses and pelting the slashed-up can into the other basin of the sink.

I shake my head. All I can do is shake my head.

My voice cracks. Already I'm repentant. "…Well, you don't have anything else to eat-" I swing my hand to indicate the cabinets. "What do you… what are you gonna eat?"

"I'll go out. To get coffee. I don't need-"

"You don't need what?"

"Guilt. Whining. Feeling wrong."

"You _are_-"

"I'm _not_."

"I told everyone I'd meet them at the Gaslight. We're having a session-"

"In Battery Park, I know."

"You're coming?"

I snort.

"Go to the café Roger," I turn away yet again and smile in mock apathy. "Drink coffee. Talk to your 'friends'. They understand you I guess, better than I can. Meanwhile I'll just…dump this fish. It's one less meal you'll have in the IX Corps. When they find you starved in a fucking trench I bet you'd have been wishing for a pan of salmon."

"Save it."

"Save it till when? Three weeks? It'll be too late."

"I gotta go."

But you can't Roger. You can't...


	2. The Only People For Me Are The Mad Ones

_**Author's Note:** The title of this chapter comes from a quote by Jack Kerouac. In it, he describes the lifestyle of the beat poets rather romantically, professing their twisted ways, and yet failing to find a life more suitable- just as Roger does in this chapter._

_**Warning: **In agreement with the times, Roger says, 'blacks' a bit condescendingly. It doesn't mean he's racist, nor are we._

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_Roger's POV, December 19th, 1950 (and prior)_

-

I decide to walk quickly.

If he doesn't want company than neither do I.

At this point and time, skipping a homemade meal and the warmth of feasible privacy seems worth it. Although, it's a pity that most of my choices lately only bring me disappointment and variance. I've gotten used to that. But…this is the first time anything I've ever done actually brought me to the point of leaving my own house to avoid my, well, _unavoidable_ self-reproach. Goddamn him, the little weakling… He has no right to be taking stabs at my conscience. He doesn't see that it's not going to work! He's so dull-witted at all the wrong times! I've got my mind made up! I've _had_ it made up!

…And he wonders why I keep my mouth shut. Ha.

But- I'm at fault just as well. I could've been _smarter_. Just because he can't consider my perspective doesn't mean I have to _leave_ my own damn house to prove a point! …I could laugh out loud. How sad is it that I don't care anymore? Really, I wouldn't heed detachment from Mark or isolation from my happy home life-

…Lord, I'm having repercussions…

Augh! It's only to clear my head! The house is still mine, my choices are still secure. I have other friends- better support.

The Gaslight is close enough to a second home.

...Fuck. I'm out of cigarettes.

…There's a pack on the dresser…

I decide to walk faster.

They're really _not_ worth going back for.

--

The Gaslight's a peripheral little place, tucked behind waterfalls of ivy and the banal red-bricked buildings of MacDougal St. Normally it is the only rendezvous point for my acquaintances and I.

Everyone knows it exists, and yet everyone only goes when it's a necessity. It isn't just a bland little coffeehouse. There's an abundance of _those_ things elsewhere. No one cares about _coffee_. They care about the atmosphere. The _panorama_ per se. They're a demanding bunch with a sixth sense for a dull environment before they even step through the door. For them, it's all a puzzle. The pieces need to fit _just_ _so_, or it doesn't come together properly. If the right people aren't in the right place at the right time, they'll cancel their meetings altogether and leave- presumably to go gripe about how no one is exercising freedom of assembly. Wherein which, they'll all refuse to speak to one another and then at a later date, agree to assemble merely to cause controversy or mourn the vacancy of the poor café.

So in context it's more of a kindred spirit- a person within itself. The Gaslight is more of a _part_ of the group than a place to house it. As is every building and apartment and closet and beachfront and wherever else these people choose to drape themselves and divorce from society. It doesn't matter _where_. It seems to matter _what_.

…I could care less. I show up merely to provide the token supportive commentary and provoked criticism within our group. I've been familiar with this crowd ever since I moved to New York. And somehow I _still_ don't seem to fit in. Which is redundant, because no one really seems to fit in, ever. Mark tells me that's beyond the point. "…We all tolerate each other and suffer together and that's what matters…"

…Just another thing I could argue with Mark about. There's more backstabbing and hearsay and love triangles and lost interest among these people…It's dysfunctional ridicule. A corrupted dynamic amongst those who _claim_ to be a family. It's funny…I think that's why I continue to come to this place even though it's such a conundrum. For that false sense of belonging. I mean, _Mark_ cares for me- he's the closest to family I've ever felt comfortable with- but these people humor me and exist in such a predictable manner I might as well have grown up with them.

My own family- The _Davis_ flesh and blood, are less complicated. Mark's arguments are rationalized somewhat in my upbringing. I don't talk about them much. Somewhere since birth I've wound up a failure to my father. Outcast as the provincial son, I look to my mother for the genuine grounds of 'family.'

She tries. And I admire her for that above anything or anyone. She watched silently as my brothers and I strayed from her husband's American dream and grew into the restless youth he so feverishly warned us against becoming. And then she sat back and suffered the consequences.

On the outside we were a typical family. She managed to get a roast on the table and my father's shirts starched and pressed for the daily grind. But she (like all of us) was missing the devotion and love it took to hold a family together. My father stopped loving her shortly after she provided him with three strapping young boys to mold in his image. Relentless discipline and imposed beliefs never worked in his favor. And the more we rebelled against being lived vicariously through, the harder he tried to fit a round peg in a square hole. Well, no- not square. 'Square' is what I have become at The Gaslight. But 'useless' is what I have become to my father. "There is no use in America for another jazz musician!" Apparently I'm riding the influx of dirty junkies and masquerading, cowardly Reds and pointless, inane poets and sniveling, senseless writers who're trying so hard to exploit the foundations of this levelheaded country.

Which is half the reason I fell in love with Mark. I'll never admit that of course, it's too horrible to reveal. It slipped to the back of my mind after a few years- that I'd indeed found and fell for a pointless and inane poet…to spite my father. But that same love was brought to the surface again when I realized maybe pointlessness and inanity could actually come together in the end.

-

We were artists.

I cringe to think that, because that's hackneyed and I don't like to categorize myself with the shifty children of The Gaslight.

But whatever inborn and aesthetic value draws people like us together leapt out and bared its teeth, and I couldn't hide the fact that I was a musician- crude and neutralized and outcast, by default. My father didn't want me around, society didn't have a place for me, the city of New York, after I moved there, seemed to have an abundance of me- people like me- people who played bass or trumpet or, hell, the harmonica- and just stood on the street corners and said, "Hey. I'm an artist. Look at me."

If you put yourself out there like that you're automatically part of the family. So I kept to myself and tried not to make it so obvious. Family made me uncomfortable, blood or otherwise. I moved to the city to escape that feeling…and to make money. I joined a jam band, invested in a bass, and booked a few nightclubs. And the infamous and overstocked coffeehouses. My first few months on my own existed as a vicious cycle of sessions till midnight, sleeping till five, and then splashing water on my face and pleading with myself to go out and do it all again.

It was music, it was the city, and it paid the bills. But it ended up being an overload of reality. Instead of being a fresh breath of relief from suburbia, it was a stale sigh in a different circumstance. I dug the scene. My band mates were my kind of people. They only spoke if they were spoken to and they didn't ask. Or _question_ _authority_, as seemed so popular amidst the throngs of 'artists' in the clubs parallel to ours. There was a silent war that ended up taking place between the asinine poets next door and the calm clusters of musicians that floated from club to club, poet-specific or not.

We, "…couldn't make up our minds," on whether or not we wanted to, "break away from society or play music for it." It was a secret, underground conflict unknown to the entertainment-starved world of the daytime. We didn't want these obnoxious and lazy poets cramping our style.

Music took integrity and rehearsal and asceticism, unlike this rowdy bunch that just slapped some words on paper and fluctuated their voices to woo the crowd. They had nothing up their sleeve and no skill. If I had inherited anything from my old man it was the belief that they had nothing to prove and a ruckus to cause. I just wanted to be left alone to find myself and a love of my art form.

Strung out and jaded from a night's session, I'd trudge home at sunrise, careful to avoid the crowd coming out (and coming down) from the surrounding poetry slams. Eyes red and bloodshot, and with content looks of revelation and enlightenment they'd drift along side me, mumbling verses and sonnets and stanzas of the night's opaque revolution. They smelled like sex and books and failure. I'd clutch my bass to my side and hang my head, trying to disappear into the shadows of the escaping twilight. I didn't want to associate, or even relatively mingle. Reds aside, it wasn't safe to walk the streets alone anymore. The war was at home now- jailhouses packed to the gills with sedition violators and anti-Americans. Every poet, after every night, was a juvenile delinquent. And yet I'd smoke on the street corner, waiting for the bus, and I was no better! I couldn't hide the bass. I couldn't hide my poverty. And I didn't want to cut my hair like a fucking jarhead. I wasn't anti-American…but I wouldn't conform. And when I say _conform_, I don't mean as a handsome young solider with a broad chest and a positive attitude. No. The nightlife conformed too. Their berets and their goatees and their metaphors and wit. Through a critical lens they were all the same.

I didn't know what I wanted. I didn't want to fit in and fade away, but I didn't want to be alone.

I wrote my mother every week like a good boy should, lying to her and telling her that I'd got a job as a mechanic- just so my father would keep his sanity for a few more years, until his overstressed heart gave out. I doubt that'd be a release for my mother, but at least it gave her something to look forward to. I told her I'd found a girlfriend. She'd be happy- I'd never been in love.

My brother Stanley, two years my junior, wrote to me about college life and the possibilities of studying abroad. He joined the military, becoming a correspondent in Moscow sometime last August. I haven't heard from him since. He's most likely moved on to emissary status.

My seventeen-year-old brother Caleb is just finishing high school in Albany. He writes to me as frequently as I write to our mother, and he may come and live with me once he's of age. He's just as much of a mess as I a, but I think figuring life out and finding himself in New York City will be more effective than trying to spread his wings with our father watching. My mother is secretly stashing away parts of dad's checks to cover Caleb's travel costs.

-

It was very lonely the fist two years, and I grew tired of everything. I finally gave in and concluded that I _was_ useless, and let a lot of people down. In dire need of a break, I found myself in a beat club one night, minus my instrument and minus any intolerance I might've had if I weren't so wearied.

There seemed to be no focus or lighting or wait staff or order. It was sleepy chaos, and so I just sank into a stiff leather chair in the back of the club and filled my ashtray and listened to the quiet mumble of rebellion. I got my much-needed rest without actually sleeping, and returned home strangely refreshed and craving more. I went along with it and was back the following night. Their mysticism was addictive.

I could see why my fellow musicians were so polar to these people. They operated on emotion and sudden impulse, playing _with_ the rhythm instead of playing it. There were house musicians here, but they read no notes and knew no counts. This kind of jazz wasn't logistics and timing and mathematics, but pure harmony with the words that were being recited. I was jealous. I wanted to play without the limits of sheet music. The music was the poetry and the poetry was the music. There was no defining line between them.

And things were being done amidst this music. Sexual acts were being performed, Socialist speakers and blacks intertwined with the capitalist white majority. Although… none of them were capitalist, I'm sure. Women crooned passionate villanelles into the microphone, lacking bras or restraint and beaming with confidence and a love of the limelight. Marijuana was the inspiration of choice, and most of the time I'd float home high by accident. Everyone spoke and were spoken to and everyone asked, and most of the time, got answers. Things were happening, I could feel them.

--

I came across The Gaslight as one of the later clubs I'd experimented with. This club was not as tranquil, though. It gave off the feeling of mischief afoot. No one entered without a pen or paper, and it appeared no one ever came out. Harder drugs were consumed here- a heroin and cocaine ring operated side-by-side from the basement, and the majority of the sales didn't get any further than upstairs. The Gaslight was also home to a local Communist editorial- the secret headquarters, in a way. Two tables were designated to the salon of authors and infiltrators. There was a printing press behind the fireplace.

Like all the other clubs, The Gaslight was open at all hours, but it always seemed day here, and everyone always seemed awake and busy- even the junkies- who wrote in journals and grinned sheepishly at one another for hours on end. But this is because things were getting done. There were people to hate and protests to assemble and obscene things to be publicly announced. I wanted in- but I still had no friends. These people preached against class and cliques, and yet, they seemed so wary of newcomers- or in my case- me. I wasn't even acknowledged with a nod or a half-hearted smile, so I just shrugged it off and found joy in simply people-watching.

Mark read almost every night. He was _wild_. And he spoke with a vengeance, uninhibited and passionate and resentful of his country and war and death and bias. However, he wasn't political like most of his colleagues. It was raw emotion, and he sucked you in and made you numb to everything else. He made the crowd look at him and listen to him and _feel_ what he felt. He was persuasive and solemn, and he was easily excited and innocent all the same.

And then all at once he'd disappear from the club and the streets of Greenwich, and wouldn't reappear until Easter time or Christmas and summer. I worked up the courage to ask someone about him, only because I was so entranced by his stage presence. The young man I asked ended up becoming a best friend of mine- Russell. Russell never read poetry or performed. He was mainly the kid that shuffled around and met people, grinning like a maniac, and then altogether pulling away to brood in a corner. He was neurotic and capricious, and he'd question authority- _if_ there was any authority to question. He was unsure of himself, but seemed to have the answers.

I wandered over to him one day because I'd seen him talking to Mark, and he seemed friendly enough.

"Hey." I said, trying not to look too desperate for human connection.

"Yeah?" He responded, already looking bored and disappointed with the outcome of this conversation.

"Hey, um, can you tell me anything about that poet who read last night? He had the shaggy blond hair and glasses…and he…spoke about regimentation…?"

"Oh! Ah. That was Mark- good friend of mine. Met him in California. He's gone by now. College. He's a photojournalist at Brown. We expect a lot of him. He visits on holiday vacations. Why?" Russell's whole answer seemed to filter down into his question, as if he was expecting to get something in return for disclosing that information.

"…I don't know. I really admired his work, is all."

"Yeah," He nods thoughtfully. "A lot of people do."

The conversation fizzled and died, and soon I found myself at home, laying in bed, picturing Mark onstage barking and writhing his opposition as hard as his small frame would allow. He was rather quiet and hoarse, but made an enormous impact nonetheless. There was revenge in his voice- and sadness. I knew that tone. I felt that anger. And out of nowhere that ambiguous sense of 'home' took shape, and I made it a goal to find this Mark and relate.

-

He returned months later, in April, with new material. Over the course of four months Russell and I got to talking, and I was inducted among Russell's rag tag band of friends. Mark was living with Russ that spring…- not that Russell was necessarily _living_ anywhere. But when it was warm enough the pair camped out on a Tribeca rooftop between a wall of snow and the ventilation system. On the really frigid nights Russell would stake out the neighborhood squatter's community and crash there, bringing Mark and adding two other bodies to the pile of bohemians lumped around the space heater. Luckily it was a mild April, and nights on the asphalt weren't unbearable.

This particular vacation Mark hitched to the city from Rhode Island with an itinerant band of Marxist activists. Most of them settled, eventually, at The Gaslight to contribute to the paper, and used Mark's well-adjusted and Ivy League credentials as a cover and a diversion. Although, according to Russell, Mark was somewhat of a Marxist himself- a bleeding heart alliteration that didn't suit his outward appearance at all! –He hated Brown and its pretensions, and believed higher education should be easily accessible and cheap…if not free. He lived by, 'knowledge is power', and thought that high costs and strenuous admissions requirements were just America's way of keeping the 'power' from those who needed it most. It seems that he was fighting the system from within it, but hadn't yet done anything too extreme besides write a hell of a lot of raving poetry and hang collages of his journalism pictures on campus walls. He wanted a bigger fan base- more great minds to think alike before staging a sit-in against college _in_ college.

Russ on the other hand, went along with the majority more often than he made up his mind and fought. His views were fairly mild compared to the inhabitants of the squatter pad, who were as follows:

An African-American Communist, atheist, anarchist and professor who knew how to supply abundant amounts of food and money to his honorary family while evading the heat and electric bills and smuggling everyone in the roomiest possible lodgings with the least amount of fuss. There was also the feminist/activist/performance artist who was a real thespian for Guerilla Theater. She'd recruit her friends as the players, and her productions were conceived overnight, on a whim, for whatever she felt like bitching about that week. She'd set her radar on a vacant parking lot or low rooftop, borrowing someone's typewriter and churning out a script for any volunteers to digest and explode onto unsuspecting victims of the city. Audience participation was an enormous contribution, whether they were willing or not, and her shows got all the more reviews if the police showed up, wherein the production turned into a 'barbecue' or 'porkfest', and nightsticks and handcuffs were among the condiments. Rarely did these achieve the arsenal of arrests the playwright guaranteed, but onlookers couldn't help but feel they might wind up in a holding cell nonetheless. The acting was terrible, the dialogue was stentorian, and the stage was unlimited. I had the privilege of attending every show.

There was also the drug dealer, who never squatted for long but was always convenient, and there were the technician specialists- providing rubber cement to plug up bank locks, burlap sacks to sew into the lining of coats to shoplift necessities, bobby pins and master keys, connections, poisons, fake ID's, bus tickets, records, cinder blocks, nitrogen, wires, Styrofoam, sewing needles, rubber tires, power tools, gasoline, pens, paper, fireworks, prophylactics, employment checks, VD shots, almanacs, wire hangars, cardboard boxes, and library books. You needed it, they had it.

There were the executors and planners, the abusive and the abused, the strangers and the regulars, the artists and the outlaws, and the law-abiders, law-breakers, and law-makers, and everyone in between. And then there was me. I didn't fit in anywhere. I was Roger- friend of Russell's, ostracized and taciturn, and I didn't bother anyone and no one bothered me. Sometimes the gang questioned why I didn't live with them…Why I just showed up and never stayed. Some of them thought I was a cop in disguise, undercover, waiting for the opportune moment to conduct a drug bust or mace them ALL. I was too reserved for my own good. The truth was- I didn't want anyone to know I had my own place. I didn't want strangers showing up at my door pleading for a warm bed or collection of floorboards. I was no philanthropist. I didn't do hospitality.

-

That spring I'd finally found enough credit for a sense of home. But I hadn't found love- in any sense- from another soul, in my music, in my own heart. I didn't want to watch my friends. I wanted to _be_ them. I was genuinely unhappy…but I'd gotten used to it.

Mark was too caught up in his own solipsism and authentic love of life to notice me- yet. I adored him- there was no other way to put it- and I couldn't figure out why. I felt creepy and perverted and _wrong_ for scrutinizing him above everyone else- I mean- there were so many interesting characters within our group that I could drink in- but Mark was different. I couldn't figure out what was wrong with me- I was falling for him. But just the way he'd light up a room, beaming and excited to fraternize and share his latest brainstorms, running up to perfect strangers and babbling, hands flying, ideas flying, scarf flying behind him, and then he was gone.

Little did I know that he'd noticed me a long time ago, and that he was shy and had a twisted way of showing it- by "ignorance."

He'd caught onto me way before I'd caught onto myself.

--

Although we knew the other existed, we met by accident.

Russell was ushering me out of the club to go and buy a newspaper to check the status of Truman's re-election campaign. We walked to the paper box, but Russell was distracted by someone across the street that he thought he knew. Running after them to confirm, he left me penniless at the paper box to find another means of acquiring a paper.

I stared at the handle stupidly with empty pockets. From behind me, Mark appeared.

"'Cuse me." He said, brushing past. He was blushing, but I was too busy examining my shoes to notice. "Do you need a paper?"

"Uhh…no. I don't have…a nickel." I can't help but laugh at the stupidity of my statement.

"Hm." Mark pondered, nodding thoughtfully. "Weird…I don't either…" And then proceeded to drive his foot into the little lock. The metal clasp sprang up and the door clattered open. He bowed down, grabbing two copies of The Voice, handing one to me, then ducking back down to grab the remaining pile of papers to shove into his messenger bag. Then he smiled to himself and closed the door carefully.

I just watched him with my mouth agape. I'd seen much worse and much more illegal acts performed amongst his friends, but I'd never suspected him of doing anything, especially so casually. Maybe he was showing off.

He raises his eyebrow.

"What?" He jests playfully, beginning to skip away.

"You can't," I stutter, "…do _that_!"

He puts his hands on his hips and cocks his head. "Oh pish-posh. Why not?"

"Because…I…you…" Damn.

"No really, why not? You're making me feel guilty!" He's grinning.

"I don't know. I just think…that a lot of work goes into making a newspaper and that…you should pay for it."

He turns his own edition over in his hands. "Hm. Really? Are you a journalist?"

"Um, _no_." I'm a bit annoyed. "But don't you agree that all the research they do should be rewarded?"

"Uh…" He thinks a second. "No."

I frown. He continues. "That's why they have wages. They're paid hourly to type up some shit that the world will believe and cause a fuss about and then beg for a conclusion. So they buy a newspaper like it's gonna have all the answers. Your nickel is just like… a tip. To encourage them to keep spewing their bullshit. We usually raid these coin boxes anyway, so it's not like the publishers are gonna even get the 'tip'. Really. It's okay. Trust me."

I still want to argue. It must show. "Real newspapers are what _we_ write. _We're_ the people being affected by government and censorship. That's all this is-" He crumples his paper. "Censorship. There's no _real_ voice."

"Oh." Is all I can say. I must look let down. He smiles warmly and puts a hand on my shoulder, shaking it gently. "No really. It's all right. Now stop looking like this affects you personally. What's your name- _Roger_? You always seem so stone-faced, damn! You put a damper on that entire back seating row of the club!" He laughs.

My eyebrow goes up. He took notice of where I sit?

He seems to catch onto me and spins on his heel, diving his hand into his bag and lighting up a cigarette.

I frown. "You smoke?"

A little mischievous smile plays at the corners of his mouth. He thinks thoughtfully again and takes a drag.

"Hm…No."

And then he's gone.

-

The next night at the club Russell's more neurotic than usual. He constantly licks his lips, flicking his tongue in and out like a snake and flitting from person to person like a moth in a light bulb. The 'trouble afoot' feeling is at an all time high, and for once, all eyes seem to be on me. And I don't like it one bit.

"Russ- what's going on?"

He shrugs, but I think he knows. It's not something planned- but it's something anticipated.

And then Mark shows up, ephemeral, determined, bouncing as usual, and plunks himself in the seat next to mine.

Astonished at his close proximity, I scoot back.

"Rog-" Russell says solemnly. "Have you met Mark?"

Mark, on the other hand, is obviously high on something other than life for a change, and leans forward, resting his chin on his fist.

"Yes _Rog_- Have you met me?"

I frown at his childishness but blush in spite of it. Russell fidgets and vanishes.

Mark reaches behind my chair and grabs my bass that I've propped there. He lays it carefully across his lap and pets the leather case. "Oh! You _play_!" It's not a question.

I have half a mind to tell him to get his hands off my instrument- and maybe- that it's not even mine, I'm holding it for a friend, leave me alone about it.

I grunt.

"That's real cool. Why don't you play here? With us?"

"Um…no one ever asked me to."

"_Asked_ you? Oh, you were waiting for an invitation? You're never gonna accomplish anything if you just sit around and wait for stuff. Take _charge_, man!"

I scoff. "Well I can't just waltz up there and start _playing_! Don't you already _have_ a bassist?"

He purses his lips. "Don't make it sound so _obvious_, geez! Ever think he'd like a _break_?"

Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer.

I try and hide a smile, struggling to remain stone-faced like he's used to. But there's just something about him. I can't help it.

"…Do they want me to play? I've been coming here for a year and no one's even acknowledged me. Russ' the only person that really talked to me, and that's only because I uh- 'took charge' and talked to him first. I really _don't_ think anyone likes me."

Mark looks offended. "Naw- you've just gotta open up a little! Russ likes ya! I'm sure the band will like you, once they get to know you…and I mean…" He puts his hands in his lap, leaning over suddenly and kissing me on the mouth, "_I_ like you."

I go completely rigid in the chair, straining my back against the seat and killing every brain cell that exists in sheer panic.

Instantly Russell returns, rubbing his hands together contently. "Well! Now that you two have gotten acquainted…" I don't really hear the rest of what he says. I'm too busy staring at Mark, who's staring at me.

The tension level in the room around us seems to recede, and I retain my frozen posture. My heart is thundering in my chest and my throat and my ears all at once, and I don't know whether or not I want to punch him or kiss him back or both.

He's not blushing, nor does he look even slightly phased, but rather like this is something he does frequently for kicks. When the blood finally returns to my face I choke, "What?" and look around, paranoid to see if anyone else witnessed that.

Mark punches my knee and whispers in amazement, "You're so sheltered, aren't you?" Then his face drops. "Oh. Gee. I'm sorry. I just thought…" He frowns and looks rueful.

"I- no- you- it's…okay."

"_Really_? Neat. Because it's true you know."

-

And so somehow we were what everyone labeled as, 'together'. And suddenly I was accepted and everyone knew me and talked to me, and even the invitation to play that I wasn't supposed to expect fell into my lap, and soon I was the bassist for the house band at the Gaslight Café. And everything worked.

-

Mark disappeared at the end of April but left his poetry journals with me. In a letter he said it was by complete accident, but I knew otherwise, and I put the verses to music. I shunned the constraints of the scale and played to complement the words at last. Things finally made sense.

I revealed to Mark (and Mark only) that I had my own place. And without skipping a beat I said that if he could keep his mouth shut it was his as well as mine when he was here. He was overjoyed. In our separation, he mailed me stolen books from the Brown archive on traditional jazz composition and drafts of archetypes of student newspapers. He was thrilled to share this forbidden information with someone, and called- a lot- to hear what I thought about _everything_.

And when school was out for the three long months of summer, he was at my doorstep in the blink of an eye. He was off and babbling and bashing opinions before I could open the apartment door all the way. And without even unpacking his suitcase he was in my kitchen (that he'd never seen before) brewing us tea (that he brought) and critiquing the latest decisions of the executive branch.

We sat at my pathetic little coffee table, sipping raspberry tea and catching up. And so it was for the next two years.

He never strayed. He was random and busy bodied as ever, tethered to nothing and full of input, leaving for days at a time to experiment in opium tents or talk with Buddhists outside the UN building, or sell his photojournalist portraits alongside the vendors in Battery Park. But he'd always find me, and he'd always share his information and pry some out of me.

We never fought. Only vaguely, when Mark disagreed with me about something and wouldn't let up until he'd convinced me he was right.

-There was only one time though, when I lost it. Mark staged an anti-war protest in my living room. Everyone from The Gaslight and then some were yelping and burning papers and painting hammer-and-sickles on anything with a flat surface. He automatically assumed that I was anti-war and that he had full permission to conduct _his_ affairs in _my_ house. Without even considering his feelings I kicked everyone out-including Mark, and locked myself up, alone. Just like old times.

Mark didn't return that night. Or the next, or the next, and that was the beginning of where we differed.

Mark was a pacifist down to his very core. He was extremely biased against the American Cause, and considered all soldiers drooling, ravenous killers and nothing but. He measured America's murderous tendencies, and thought our invasion of Communist countries was just an excuse to be imperialistic warmongers, build another bomb, and kill another 90,000 people. He said Socialism was not seeping in to rot away the foundations of our republic, but it was merely another political party. He had a lot of hate trapped inside his skinny little body, and his only outlet was his non-violent protests.

He may have been my 'boyfriend", but opposites attract, I guess.

-

I'd never attended a sit-in, or picketed, or raised my voice to either side. Because I resided with the New Left everyone just assumed I was a New Leftist.

But they were wrong.

Never did I sign a contract committing myself to a life of activism. I slipped by every night avoiding speech making, and no one, not even Mark, seemed to notice that I wouldn't talk to the conscious Communists or assert my apathetic opinion for the oppressed. At first glance, I didn't care. I didn't care to be political or struggle towards revolution. Frankly, revolution meant a disruption of my quiet life. It meant readjusting and possibly losing my friends. And from what I'd heard, my _friends_ _were_ the threat.

America's fear was internal. We were more at risk of an inside takeover than an outside invasion. After the Iron Curtain descended we reeled our suspicions inward, putting a magnifying glass over the parasites cowering beneath our red, white and blue. We weren't as concerned about another Hitler or Stalin launching an air raid or a march. We'd be prepared for that. It was the corruption and destruction of our own democracy and morals that scared us.

-That scared _me_.

I wasn't blatantly capitalist, but my political standings were never something I could openly discuss with Mark. The artists weren't 'useless', but they were dangerous. Not violent- it humored me to picture Mark armed with a machine gun to prove a point. No. Never assertive.

But _intellectually_ they knew too much- and worse- thought they knew everything. Mark could go on for hours about a Socialist utopia and everyone else would just revel in it, snapping their fingers in praise.

But it was bullshit!

Just as I wouldn't want one of these people in my house, I sure as hell didn't want them controlling my money or fighting my battles. By association I was an artist, by talent I was a musician, but by choice I disregarded this counterculture.

I thought of Caleb and Stanley. They worked too hard growing up to have to settle to live in a country where none of that mattered.

Caleb planned on studying political science in college. What was the point of striving for ability when his government was all fucked up? I wanted him to become the successful professional I never had.

And Stan whisked away to a strange land with the most brutal of the freedom fighters, forced to hide his own opinion to avoid capture, torture, and execution.

And finally my mother, who managed to put up with everything and still come out the picturesque and idealized housewife behind a perfectly crafted mask. I didn't want her to have to pretend anymore. I wanted to give her something to be proud of.

I was a traitor amongst my own kind. I'd been lying to myself, the group, to Russell, to _Mark_, all along. I didn't practice what they preached. I didn't agree. I didn't have time for enamored words and flustered poetry that went nowhere and looked bleak in the long run. This wouldn't help save the country- or other people. The people of the Gaslight- even my Mark- just cared for their own well-being and couldn't see past that fault.


	3. The Pamphleteer

_**Author's Note**: The title of this chapter was inspired by the Weakerthan's song 'Pamphleteer'._

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Mark's POV, December 17th, 1950_

_-------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

I shove my hands deep into the pockets of my overcoat and wedge open the café door with my shoulder. I spin a bit to block the blast of December air that launches itself vindictively at my face. It crackles against my cheeks and temporarily makes breathing difficult. I nuzzle my mouth into the wool of my collar and try to sip up any remaining warmth that may have settled there.

The sky is low and desolate looking, continual clouds pregnant with the winter's first snowfall. All of Greenwich is gray, as if the low-hanging haze touched down to cloak the city. The clouds don't even billow, but rather suspend themselves sternly and obstruct the sun in an unnatural filter. Ice has wound its way along the streets, and the frost and the color of the sky blend in such a sedative manner I feel like closing my eyes and letting sleep take me. Instead, I am rudely forced awake, eyes wrenched open by the day's seething cold.

I squint through the unending grayness, retinas burning in the motionless chill. West 3rd stretches before me, tilting ever farther into the gray horizon. I feel woozy and displaced all at once and instantly regret tea-smoking all afternoon. The heavens are almost threatening, and the silence is deafening, vociferously crawling into my ears and making an empty static sound that makes me want to vomit. Even the muffle of falling snow would be louder than this soporific wrinkle in time. Where is everyone else? I am the only thing moving on the shivering streets, making myself vulnerable to wind and quiet and that doomed peculiarity of Greenwich in winter. I suddenly am small and lost, shying away beneath the barrages of the immaculate stone apartments.

The tips of my ears turn crimson with a dislocated fear and from the biting wind, and I suddenly have the impulse to run- to get out of the path of the leering buildings and crushing sky and get somewhere safe and warm.

For an interminable second I forget that this year I am not a vagrant. I have grown _far_ too accustomed to being uprooted on my breaks from college. I'm used to walking until my feet are numb and my fingers blue with cold, until I find suitable accommodations- at least for a night. Usually Russell has somewhere outré to tuck into, and if there's _something_ comforting about this wretched Village, there's always a niche of unlawful tenants hidden somewhere…but they are usually only a substitute in extreme emergencies. There's usually a friendly couple or willing versifier at The Gaslight accommodating enough to take me home…if I play my cards right…

This December world is unnerving. I feel like I'm trapped under glass and cannot bring myself to turn around and stay in The Gaslight until night falls. "But it was so _cozy_ there…" I whine to myself. I wasn't even reading tonight…just sitting in the back and listening to a live broadcast of Lester Young. I could just go back and ask Russell to lead me to somebody's undernourished pad…

I wrinkle my nose. I'm sick of depending on him. It seems that I am unwelcome in New York today. I do not want to stand on this tranquil sidewalk a moment longer. I want- I _need_ to go _home_.

And then all of the sudden a leisurely warmth trickles its way into the back of my mind, and works its way down my spine and settles into every vein and blood vessel.

_Roger_.

And abruptly the nauseating cold and desolation seem more dreamlike than terrifying.

I _do_ have somewhere to go today! And even though it is not my home it is slowly becoming it.

I push past the leafless trees and black-windowed buildings, eager to cease my drifting. There's a newfound exhilaration to my walk- the frost is forgotten and my heart feels like it wants to burst from pure…_romance_!

I blush.

Suppressing my joy, I wrap my scarf tighter around my neck and carefully redirect my wandering.

Roger…

Closing my eyes, I tilt my head back and grin. I'm not used to this. Someone to come home to? And at the same time I'm _too_ used to this. Two years with him. We'd been together _two_ _years_ and he _still_ manages to get my heart racing.

I'd been nomadic and hedonistic for far too long, and there was still that viscous thread remaining between my unrestrained lifestyle. I wasn't going to altogether discontinue my bohemian values, but I guess I was involuntarily making some changes for Roger. He was reserved and inexperienced, and I was too deeply in love to juggle both existences. Although it was easy to forget my priorities- and for years without a home or someone who cared about me as much as Roger- I had an excuse. I love Roger; and as I near his- _our_- apartment, I find it necessary to make a livid list of reasons. Because although I get the most out of life when I am with my friends, I find life has more meaning when I am with Roger.

The tip of the iceberg is the little things he does- tending to my bumps and bruises and broken bones received from demonstrations gone awry or the sometimes intolerant lowbrows pillaging through Greenwich looking to bash and to rant. It takes courage to enter the line of fire…that's something not even Russell would do…

Last year, Christmas time, Roger and I were walking together down Christopher Street, and I was feeling mischievous, among other things. I was bounding around, making a big deal out of the season, with Roger just shuffling behind me looking dreary. I felt it was my duty to be whimsical when Roger fell into one of his many unexpected mood swings, especially when he had nothing in particular to be moody about.

"Merry Christmas!" I yelled to an empty shop window.

"Christmas is tomorrow." Roger's monotone lack of enthusiasm.

I spin in the snow, sliding up to him and clamping both hands on his shoulders. "I _know_! You're not excited?"

"I didn't say that."

I graciously tip my hat at a passing couple, bidding them seasons greetings. The woman snuggles her rosy cheeks into her lovers shoulder and smiles at me before they trek on.

"Well aren't you just the Tiny Tim of Greenwich?"

"I am _not_ crippled." I argue, pirouetting around a lamppost to demonstrate.

"Wow. I wouldn't have noticed. Besides, I never said I wasn't keen on Christmas."

"You don't appear to be very keen on _anything_ today. What _isn't_ there to be excited about? The snow is beautiful. You've got _me_. And I mean…you've got somewhere to live- somewhere safe and dry and out of the cold… That's all I'd ask for. It's perfect. It's _Christmas_!"

"Well, sorry if I'm not gallivanting around like you. Sometimes it's hard to see…the 'magic' in things. I'll leave that up to you, all right?"

"…No. It's not all right. No one's holding me back! I plan to gallivant until the sky caves in!" Whooping with joy, and simply to spite Roger, I leap in front of an oncoming stranger, take his hands, and spin him. He nearly drops his briefcase, scowling, frazzled, on the first rotation, but tries to contain a dizzied grin the next time around. "Merry Christmas!" I propose to him, too, and then release his hands, catapulting him down the sidewalk. He glances over his shoulder with a look of both displeased perplexity and genuine glee.

"You see? It's the atmosphere. Christmas makes people giddy. It's _perfectly_ acceptable to make a little _magic_." I give him a sincere nod. "You're the only one in the city who's bothered." Forcing back a giggle, I grab his hand and sling him, skidding in the dustings that have escaped shovels in the storefront walks. He's not accustomed or prepared to run on slippery ground and his clumsy impetus knocks me into an entrance of a candle shop. Our legs tangle, we stagger a few feet suspended gracefully in the falling snow, and then '**bam**', fall face first into the store. The little tin bell in the doorway jingles, announcing our ungainly arrival.

The man at the counter looks up, frowning impatiently. He pounds the pedestal of a tarnished brass candlestick on his countertop and clears his throat to get our attention. I'm too busy trying to squirm out from beneath Roger to really notice his peeved scowl, and to my surprise, Roger is laughing at him. This sets me off, and we remain intertwined the slushy welcome mat failing to catch our breath and trying to stand up. However, my hysterics do not render me unobservant. Besides, it is quite hard to miss the festive green sprig of mistletoe dangling inches from the little bell. I snap my mouth shut and stare at it, completely still. Roger is still chuckling, pinning me to the floor. He doesn't notice yet. I lay motionless, ogling at it pale-faced, like it's a ghost. When Roger finally realizes I'm no longer laughing, he coughs and looks down at me.

"What?"

I bite my cheek to keep from smiling and stare.

At this point the clerk has left his counter and is stomping over to us, very upset. Several shoppers peek their heads from around shelves, curious.

Roger searches my face for a second and then turns his head around to follow my gaze, bringing his eyes to the ceiling.

His smile fades and his face drops.

He notices.

"MERRY CHRISTMAS!!!" I squeal, grabbing his head, and banging our faces together.

The storeowner, who is now inches from where we lay, jumps about three feet in the air and all but knocks himself flat on his ass. He paws at his apron and wrings the neck of the candlestick, making breathless inhales of objection.

"Hey…hey…_HEY_!" This last 'hey' makes me a bit frightened he's going to clobber us with the candlestick. Roger clears his throat and pushes off my shoulders, kneeling.

"_Mark_!" He hisses, blushing redder than I've ever seen.

"Time to go!" I snigger, wiping my mouth. "Terribly sorry 'bout your doormat sir," I bow to the terrified clerk, "…but _do_ have a Merry Christmas. And…God bless us, every one."

With that I leap up and snatch the little twig of mistletoe dangling it by two fingers and then tucking it behind my ear. I swipe at the air for Roger's hand, make contact, and then duck out the door. Roger doesn't have to think twice to follow.

We break into a run, now much more coordinated on the icy streets.

"What was that about Mark?! You can't…just…_do_ that!"

"What?" Laughing and running is hard to do. "Wish people a Merry Chris-'_THUNK_!"

What I believe to be the big brass candlestick has hit me squarely in the nape of my neck.

Still smiling, and still gripping Roger's hand, I collapse onto the frozen sidewalk, accidentally pulling Roger down with me. My chin slides along the icy curb and I shed a few good layers of skin, glasses skittering under a car. Roger grabs the pole of a parking meter and manages to catch himself.

"Mark- what-"

_THUNK_! And again, the candlestick makes splintering contact with my right shoulder blade. I yelp and grab my shoulder, to my mistake, because for a third time the pedestal pounds into the fingers on my left hand. They throb and turn black in seconds.

"Shit!" I ball my fist and roll into the street seconds before the candlestick bashes into the sidewalk.

"Stay out of my store- damn _queers_!"

My vision is blurry, but I can see him swinging the thing down straight for my face. I quickly scissor my legs, trapping his ankles. He loses his balance and smashes his lip on a nearby car window. I take the opportunity to drive my foot directly into his groin. Moaning, he slumps to the curb and I whoop in triumph, scrambling over to hoist Roger to his feet.

"Ha! Take that you fucking _goon_!" I scoff, fumbling to kiss Roger in front of my helpless attacker. Roger pulls away again, not so much from embarrassment this time, but because another man has snuck behind me and is now wielding the candlestick.

Roger emits a warning cry, but not soon enough, and his blow has me out cold.

---

I wake up on Roger's couch, cold compress pressed firmly to the back of my throbbing head. I can't see, mainly because my glasses are still gone, but also because my head is so tender I can't bear to shift its position.

"God, it feels like I've got an egg growing out of the back of my head…"

Roger harshly says nothing.

"Is it critical doctor?" I grin as much as my bleeding mouth is able.

"Why don't you just shut your mouth for a while Mark?" This is a very sarcastic question.

"No, that's okay. So what happened after I blacked out?"

Again, the cutting silence.

"Did we win?"

The cold compress is unexpectedly yanked from behind my head and I slam into the couch arm.

"Ow! Did we win?"

"Mark! Mark how-" He grunts. "How can you be so- how do you do it? What is your _problem_? You just run around like…no one cares how you act! You can't just…the world doesn't revolve around you. You're not _invincible_. Do you _have_ to make such a damn spectacle of yourself _all_ _the_ _time_? And worse, drag _me_ into it? Just because your thick-headed friends think that opening their mouths and spewing all their subversive bullshit will change the fucking world, it _won't_. Haven't you ever had a humbling experience?! Are you that…_stupid_ that you can't tell when enough is enough? God gave you a brain- use it!"

I feel guilty, sure. But I don't think it's me that's the problem. He needs to learn to open up and accept who he is…or wants to be.

I close my eyes. "So…we didn't win?"

Roger punches the couch and leaves the room.

--

This is what I love about him. He'll argue with me. I'd _finally_ found someone who wouldn't just nod and agree. He had opinions, and most of the time I opposed them. And that was strange…having someone outside my customary circle of friends. I am, by nature, caustic, and Roger's offhand personality seems to balance that. I don't have him wrapped around my finger as thoroughly as I'm trying to wrap my _head_ around him.

I am eternally thankful for his putting up with me. He chooses to take on _everything_ I can dish out. My bullshit comes standard. From the moment we met I made sure he knew what I was about. And I test him for that reason. I stretch his patience past its breaking point and watch it tirelessly rebound, and that's not even something I do consciously. I have my personality flaws, and Roger is loyal. He sees something in me that I may never be able to see in myself…

But what most intrigues me is that he has things to hide- his past, his future, and really everything else. He's a trip, and I'm curious. Our relationship tends to be about discovery- and I mean that in more ways than one…

-

The April following that perturbed Christmas I was received amiably. Whoever coined the phrase 'absence makes the heart grow fonder' was tragically accurate, and for that I was grateful. Roger missed me, and whether or not I was expecting a warm welcome was beyond the point.

It's drizzling lightly the day I arrive. It always seems to be precipitating in some form or another when I'm in the city. In hindsight this could be taken as some unusual omen, or an accentuation of Roger's personality. Even in the gorgeous summer months the forecast habitually makes time for rain.

"You know, they say April is the crudest month."

Roger stares out the kitchen window at the clouded sky.

"Who's they?" He asks.

I look idly up from 'The New York Times' that I've buried my nose in. "…I wish I knew. Sounds like something you would say. I could disagree though. I think January's pretty malevolent. Especially in Providence. You can't get away…The Atlantic just cuts the air like a knife. There's always wind."

Roger shakes his head. "Winter is worse here."

He falls silent again.

"…How so?"

"The winter drags on forever. After December the months mix. It's endless cold and the sun just disappears. Between the buildings and the winter solstice, it's always dim."

Thunder rumbles gently from far away, making the table vibrate.

"…But the sun is constantly there in winter. It's just…in the distance. In spring it gets blocked out completely. Dominated by rain. April showers…"

"I miss you in winter." He interjects.

"Why?"

"…You're…just…like the sun..."

"But, not in April..."

"No. That's why it's not crude."

"…A storm's coming. It says in the paper."

He nods.

He eventually goes back to staring out the window, pressing his forehead to the glass. There's no sound in the apartment except for me turning pages every few seconds, and the approaching rumble.

"…Do you want to take a walk?" Roger asks, finally.

I set the paper down and stand up.

I don't think twice about the rain.

---

When I finally arrive at Roger's apartment, I bound up the stairs, fervent to flee this bleak winter reverie.

When I come in, Roger is sitting backwards on his kitchen chair, staring, unfocused at the doorway, looking complacent as always.

He doesn't even blink when I greet him.

…This aggravates me a little bit. How can he stand to be so immutable?

I squirm- I _want_ a response- a smile, a nod… I stop mid-step and try to position myself in his line of vision. But his eyes stay glazed and he looks right through me. I know better than to whine, so I bite my lip and stand still until something shifts in his head and he pulls back.

"Mark." It is neither excited nor disappointed.

I wave and kneel in front of him, crossing my arms over the back of his chair and resting my chin.

"Hi."

He gives a strong little smile and his eyes finally seem back in the present, here, in the room. I tap his forehead.

"What's goin' on in there?"

His smile fades and he pulls back reluctantly, taking my raised hand in his and squeezing it. He sighs, and then lets go.

I frown resolutely, watching his hand fall to his lap.

I shuffle closer and cock my head- like a dog, reaching out to press his forehead to mine.

I whisper. "…What are you thinking about?"

He shrugs- his safeguard. A verbal answer isn't required. Flinching me away, he's obstinate, and a hardened look thickens in his eyes. Again, they're no longer focused.

"Roger." I'm not scolding him as much as calling him back.

"Not now Mark." His voice too, is affected and distant.

I squirm some more. Something is wrong.

I let up and sit back on my heels, chewing my lower lip and contemplating a way in. I want him to _talk_, damnit.

His rashness seems to decrease the second I withdraw. This is not good. Half the time whatever's on his face is ten times worse than what's in his mind. His territory has been violated. I'm an intruder in his house. I want to help him, and he wants to fight me.

Swinging his leg over the chair, he stands up, giving a collective sigh and then slipping away to his bedroom.

But first he lingers a second in the hallway. I know it's because he doesn't want to leave me here on the kitchen floor in his vague detachment. It's not _me_ he's mad at, but heaven knows- I might take it the wrong way! I _know_ he's not mad at me.

He's not even mad.

He's just got something weighty to mull over….

The bedroom door clicks shut.

…I'm too damn nosey for my own good.

-

A short while later I quietly knock on his door and enter slowly. I don't want to impose, but I _do_…

He's sitting cross-legged on the bed with his head in his hands. He peers out at me through splayed fingers, and the look in his eyes is so torn I have second thoughts about coming in.

I step back but say gently, "Something is wrong…"

"Mark. Not now. Please."

I shake my head and walk over to sit next to him. I lean over and gently kiss his neck but he writhes away.

"_Don't_." His voice is low in his throat.

I frown and think for a moment. Sighing exaggeratedly, I throw myself down onto my back. Then I roll over into his lap and gaze up at him, grinning like a maniac.

I manage to catch his eye.

My grin slowly fades, cheeks hollowing with worry.

Roger does not fall for my playful persuasion, but rather gives me a look that's so upsetting my heart aches.

I sit up.

"What?"

He rubs the back of his neck. "Mark, I can't-" His eyes dart away.

I raise my palm to the side of his face and direct them back.

"Roger, what's going on?"

He snorts and shakes his head.

"…There's no way I can tell you..."

"Tell me _what_?" I can't stop my voice from sounding inked and frantic. I don't even know the gravity of the situation, but I can't take the look on his face.

He begins to laugh quietly.

Slowly, he shakes his head. "I can't. There's- you're never going to understand. Fuck. _Fuck_!" He grabs his forehead. "Mark, you have to get out of my room for a minute. I need time. You're- this is going to take time."

"Time?"

"Yes. Please stop looking at me like that. I can't handle…_you_ right now. Just forget I ever said anything. Just…maybe tomorrow. I can't tell y-…I can't." He shakes his head. I think he's convincing himself.

I stand up and pace for a second. What could possibly be going on? I am far too bothered to 'get out of the room.' I sit on the floor at the foot of the bed.

"…Are you _okay_?"

"I'm fine. Can you go?"

"No. Is your family all right?"

He snorts.

"Are you _moving_?"

He glares at me. I raise my eyebrows, annoyed.

He closes his eyes and his head is back in his hands. He scoots to the edge of the mattress.

"…No."

I keep my eyebrows raised.

"You're not going to underst-" He stands up and smiles with his mouth closed, raising his own eyebrows mockingly and cocking his head. "Fine. You want me to explain?"

"Yes."

He clears his throat and stands as if he's about to recite a speech. "Mark, 30,000 UNC soldiers were killed last month in Manchuria. MacArthur-" He stops. "…Has…no men…anymore…and…North… Korea isn't… negotiating for prisoners. And…we're losing South Korea."

"…I know..."

"We're going to lose the war."

He sounds like he just witnessed a murder. I squint.

"_Okay_…"

"No. It's…not…okay."

I gasp. "Your _brother_ isn't there, is he?"

"No." He pauses for an eternity. "…But… I will be."

I flinch.

"What?"

He inhales and for a third time his head is in his hands.

He's squeezing his temples now, angrily, _violently_, like he's trying to crush his own head. His eyes turn red, then they're moist, and then he's crying.

I scoot back on the floor and then leap up to prevent him from mashing in his eyes.

"What?"

"I want to go Mark!"

"Go _where_?" My mind is racing and I have to wrestle Roger's hands away from his face.

"_Korea_ Mark! I'm…_going_. I _enlisted_! January 10th. I _have_ to _go_…"

My mind freezes. "You-_what…_?"

He nods and falls to the bed.

"_What_?" I furrow my eyebrows and smirk, plopping onto the bed next to him.

"You don't get it! You'll _never_ understand…I'm just…a _traitor_, okay? I don't want…_this_. You. I can't…You're not…I have to go…I'm going to fight."

I pull back, completely silent.

And then I laugh.

What else can I do but laugh?

"No really…what's wrong with you?"

He squeezes his eyes shut and restrains himself from attacking his temples. The veins in his forearms pop out as he digs his nails into his palms. He bites his lower lip and shakes his head.

"Go…away. It's _true_, all right Mark? Now get out. Go and think about it. Just- LEAVE ME ALONE FOR A SECOND. I can't talk to you anymore. Get out of my room."

I'm still chuckling. "…W-what?"

He snarls and leaps to his feet, eyes wild. He takes hold of my shoulders and pushes me at the doorway.

"JUST GET OUT! _PLEASE_!"

I stumble and the door slams in my face. The momentum sends me staggering into the kitchen and I let myself fall into the kitchen chair in perplexity.

There's wail from the bedroom, and then sound of Roger driving his foot into the wall.

As I try to calm my breathing, suddenly the cold gray world of outside seems a lot more familiar than this apartment.


	4. On the Griddle

_**Author's Note**: The title of this chapter comes from the headline of the December 11th, 1950 edition of 'Time Magazine'. The article condemns America's approach to liberating the South Koreans as 'hasty', and says that the UN soldiers got themselves into one heck of a predicament, because at this point in the war, every division of the army- land, air, or sea- was greatly outnumbered by North Korean and Chinese forces, and suffering great losses because of it._

_------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------_

_Chapter Four: Roger's POV, December 19th, 1950_

...Since Mark's supposed virtues cannot amend his political obligations, maybe his friends can.

…That is nothing but a hopeful statement, I remind myself, and a lie at best. I have no place within his crowd, and I know that they will resent my decision more than Mark did. They will assert their outrage all the more explicitly because they are not inhibited by love.

If I were smart, I would turn around right now and go back to the apartment.

Instead, I choose to be ignorant and mingle with my opposition…

--

I keep my head down when I enter the café. I have been considered a part of this group for three years now, but I am still seized with the irksome impulse to act humbly. I do not greet anyone, simply because the gesture will not be met with enthusiasm, and it is less of a disappointment if I am the one doing the ignoring. As I approach the table of Mark's acquaintances, Russell acknowledges, "Roger." and says nothing more. Several heads turn and nod a subdued welcome, and a voice from the end of the table suggests, "Someone get him a chair?"

The restaurant is abuzz, although the network of voices is low and grim. There is no break in any of the conversations, and I could not interject even if I had a strategic way of making my confession. Someone brings me a barstool and I uncomfortably take a seat. Unsurprisingly, the news seems to be the talk of choice.

"Ha!" To my left, one of Russell's friends, James, stands suddenly and laughs in such a derisive tone that the woman he is addressing ducks her head. The people near her mock her intake of breath. To startle the rest of the café to attention, James increases his volume, throwing up his hands and barking, "…since _November_! So either they're fenced in and have been running in circles for a month-"

"Or this is _the_ sloppiest exit strategy in American history!" The woman exclaims, and the café explodes with the same derisive laughter. The hairs on the back of my neck bristle, and suddenly I am even more uncomfortable than when I arrived.

They are discussing the war.

Russell taps his palm on his placemat and swallows a giggle. "You _know_ Russia is having a field day. The Chinese are pulling soldiers outta every shithouse from here to Chongchon are what is the U.S. doing? _Retreating_. We _don't_ _have_ the manpower anymore and no one seems to care. Truman can call for volunteers until his lungs give out but the Soviets are behind North Korea." He raises his eyebrows and grins. "We are downright stuck. Running in circles _indeed_."

"Russell, don't laugh." Another girl across the table pleads.

"Don't _laugh_? Why _not_? Because it's _inappropriate_? I disagree! Believe it or not, fifteen thousand casualties might be the only way to get through to the UN! One would assume- when more than half of the U.S. soldiers have died, and three major divisions in three months were pushed back South- that we'd rethink things a bit!"

Several people roll their eyes but James assures them, "Really, I think it's time we found the silver lining. Atlee called for an armistice in Indochina. Britain's ready to compromise if North Korea promises to behave." He grins.

"…Compromise for what?" The arrogance in his voice piques me out of my tentative silence in the corner.

"Why, _communism_ of course!" He muses, bowing with pretend gratitude. The corners of his mouth twitch- he's just aching to jeer at me. James- as well as everyone else congregated in the basement of this café- knows that I don't quite fit in, and it is in their nature to dwell on my peculiarity. He allows his declaration to sink in for a second before breaking eye contact and addressing his table. "I really do believe that if the _Prime_ _Minister_ of Britain is willing to negotiate socialism in return for the withdrawal of his troops, then _someone_ is making progress."

Russell twitters in a fake British accent, "Here here! Jolly good!"

"Wait." I say quietly, and feel myself getting to my feet, even though I'd really prefer not to draw attention to myself. I wince a silent apology to Russell for interrupting, and turn to face James, although I dare not look him in the eye. "…When you say 'someone is making progress'…_who_, exactly?"

James glances over his shoulder at his peers and then looks me up and down. "Well Russia for one." He counts on his fingers. "Kim Il-Sung, all of North Korea, parts of China… It's ironic how America is the one who drew the 38th parallel and then recommended we sew Korea right back together! We're starting to realize that support of the Central Government is one big mistake in every aspect of this war. North Korea is too _smart_ for us! We don't want them to grow into some autocratic regime, but they're sure as hell not just gonna _shut_ _up_ and settle into the democracy we have planned for them after we 'win'. They are too determined and they are not going to stand for _imperialism_. I have a feeling Truman's getting a real big head down there in the White House thinking he's liberating all the poor South Koreans from a communist government. He's imagining a clean fight and Uncle Sam riding in on his big red, white and blue horse to tell everyone what for. When in reality he's making a fool out of this country because we're getting nowhere but _lost_, so it doesn't matter."

Russell nods and reclines against his seatback. The boy next to him casually takes a sip of his tea, and a girl near the door summons a waitress. Almost comically, everyone resumes his or her previous conversation as if what James had just preached had no significance. My ears ring.

Russell lights up a cigarette.

"Roger?" He elbows me. "You look like you just pissed your pants."

"…It doesn't matter?" I repeat, walking unsteadily away from my seat. "What '_doesn't_ _matter _'?"

"American involvement." Someone says.

"-_Why_?" I sputter, before they are even finished speaking.

"Because we've already set our example, that's why. I think by now the world understands that America is averse to communism. We're more afraid of the color red than we are of our own ego! How do we get away with dropping two bombs _and_ barging into Korea? Five months into the war and we've already murdered more civilians than North Koreans. We should just quit while we're ahead!"

"…And abandon the American soldiers and condemn them to _death_?!" I cry, before I can stop myself. "…They need _help_!"

I am pelted with incredulous stares, and several people snap their mouths shut to gawk. Russell releases a boorish "Ha!" and snorts, "Wow. …Did Mark put you up to this?"

"No!" I yelp, and flinch at his name. My ears are ringing so indomitably that I grab at them and cover my face with my arms. "No! No- this isn't about our _ego_! It's about our _home_! Don't you- you don't _understand_ that? This is where you live and this is who you are! What is _wrong_ with you? The people- over there- they don't _have_ a home! They don't even have the opportunity to fight for an _identity_! They are nothing but numbers- thousands of figures being put into a machine to aid _production_. Something you all would know nothing about! You advocate socialism like it's the answer to war. No! Every word that comes out of your mouths is editorialized. You're dependent on art and free speech. And all they taught you was how to express yourself and how to argue and _nothing_ else. You're all _hypocrites_. You sit here and _hate_ your government when all they ever do is work to make damn sure that what is happening over in Korea will _never_ happen here. Goddamnit, you wouldn't even have a table to sit at if no one ever fought for that freedom. You can throw around words, but you could never get off your asses and prove your point."

"_Fuck_ you! America is in so deep we've gotta just keep killing and killing to prove a point. At least we're conscious enough to expose the _problem_!"

"Oh, so North Korea is _too_ oppressive and America is _too_ capitalist…and you're all too elitist for anything in between- and yet you need a governmental system in place so you have something to be _conscious_ about? That's pathetic!"

Russell glares at me with a look of both hopelessness and incrimination. "...What would _you_ know about being conscious?"

"…Well that's an easy question. He enlisted."

Mark steps through the doorway, unbuttoning his coat.

There is no other sound but the noise of bodies swiveling in their chairs to face Mark. Very calmly, and without looking up at me once, he slips out of his coat and drapes it over the back of an empty chair at the far corner of the room. Slowly, he unwinds his scarf and folds it in his lap, and then he props his elbow on the table and rests his forehead in his hand.

"I don't know why I-" He pauses to stare at the ground. "-_we_- didn't see it before..."

I take a step towards the door but Russell scoots his chair back and leaps up, glowering. Several people start to whisper frantically and I panic, at a loss for words.

Mark, however, is not. "I guess he just doesn't…he doesn't know what he's getting himself into… and…he just doesn't…belong…here." The words are tumbling from Mark's mouth before he really gets a grasp of what he's saying.

"Mark…I-"

"You don't." He says quietly, raising his head from his hand and finally looking up at me.

He shrugs and ruefully admits, "I'm sorry."

I don't know what hurts worse- his implied rejection, or how he robotically pushes in his chair and drifts to the thickest part of the crowd. _Mark_ _is_ _mine_. I do not like being reminded that he is also theirs; that he belonged to them before he belonged to me. For the first time since I branded my signature to the recruitment letter, I feel the sting of a consequence. If I accept his rejection, will I be doing him a favor? …Or his _friends_? Standing foolishly, stationary and disparaged at the head of the table, I watch all heads turn and whisper to Mark. Playing devil's advocate never looked so satisfying. I convince myself that I am still standing here because I know Mark is going to push them away and defend me. Right?

Of course not.

I am still standing here because it amazes me that I have forced Mark to take a side. I am still standing here because, in all irony, I have incited a war amidst a war. And I am outnumbered.


End file.
